Haarville

By Justin Davies

Welcome to Haarville – if you've arrived, you've survived. Off the grid and not on the maps, it's a place shrouded in fog and steeped in pungent pongs. Everything here smells fishy, especially the town's suspicious new arrivals.

Twelve-year-old Manx Fearty is an orphan (his family has a terrible habit of dying, terribly), and now he's about to lose their perpetual device shop to sinister newcomers claiming to be long-lost relatives. As he sets out to prove them wrong, Manx finds himself on the trail of a murky, mist-muddled mystery – and it's one he needs to solve fast, otherwise Haarville is doomed.

With the help of his fiercely protective drag-queen guardian Father G (aka the fabulous Gloria in Excelsis), loyal best friend Fantoosh, and oystercatcher-with-attitude Olu, Manx wades through secrets, schemes and some stomach-churning seafood. Can he save both his family's legacy and his town?

Darkly comic but full of heart, this quirky middle-grade mystery adventure from Justin Davies, award-winning author of Help! I Smell a Monster and Whoa! I Spy a Werewolf (Orchard Books), is perfect for fans of Malamander and A Series of Unfortunate Events.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kelpies
• Release date: Feb 23, 2023
• ISBN: 9781782508502

Justin Davies

Justin Davies spent years flying all over the world as cabin crew before hanging up his wings to focus on writing for children. When he isn’t writing, Justin works at his local primary school, where he absolutely, never, ever tries out his story ideas on pupils. His first book, Help! I Smell a Monster, won the Fantastic Book Awards in 2021. He is also the author of Whoa! I Spy a Werewolf. Justin lives with his husband and Sally, the greyhound rescue, in Fife, Scotland.

Book preview

1.

Fearty’s Perpetuals

The eye stared up at Manx Fearty from his palm. He half expected it to wink at him, but of course it didn’t. How could it? It had no lids to blink with.

Manx tossed it into the air, catching it expertly between his thumb and index finger, before rolling it around in his hand. If it had been a real eyeball, there’d have been stringy tendons and gloopy muscly bits hanging from it. And instead of being hard, it would have been soft and slippery, like one of the freshly laid turtle eggs Professor Oliphant had taken him and Fantoosh to examine on one of his aquatic zoology classes at the beach.

He dropped the glass eye back into a tall jar, where it made a satisfying clink against the shards of wave-washed glass collected over years of beachcombing. The eye rolled to the side, ending up with its seagrass-green iris staring out at Manx. He’d always been fascinated at how his great-granduncle Fabian Fearty’s glass eye was the same bright green as Manx’s own real ones. Apparently, all the Feartys had had the same green eyes, pale pink skin and identical mussel-black hair. And even though Manx had never met any of them, he liked knowing he looked just the same.

"Keeping an eye on me as usual are you, Fabian?" said Manx, laughing to himself as he reached for the scent diffuser he’d been busy repairing all afternoon during his shift at his family’s shop, Fearty’s Perpetuals. It was a finicky job, and a couple of minutes playing with his great-granduncle’s false eye often helped to loosen his fingers.

Nimble fingers were definitely required for the next part of this repair job, because fishing out the tiny fragment of golden-hued amberose with a set of miniature tongs, then carefully cleaning it, wasn’t easy. One thing was for sure: Mr Pothery, the owner of Haarville’s parchment shop, wouldn’t be pleased if his mother’s diffuser wasn’t working when she went to spray her favourite dog rose scent on her one hundred and fourteenth birthday next week.

As he adjusted his grip on the tongs, Manx wondered what his great-granduncle and the rest of his long-deceased relatives would have made of his current repair efforts. Generations of Feartys had earned their living by keeping the town’s vast array of perpetual devices in working order. According to his guardian, Father G, none had been as skilled in working with their unusual source of power, amberose, as Manx’s mother Matilda, who’d known exactly how much of the sweet-smelling substance every device needed to work perfectly.

Manx’s father, Fintan, had also been something of a genius when it came to perpetuals. Or rather, he had been until a perpetual egg poacher exploded in his face only days after Manx was born. That unfortunate accident robbed Manx of one parent, whilst a violent case of fish fever a few days later robbed him of the other. Everyone had begged Matilda not to scoff an entire bowl of pickled herring roe at the wake following her husband’s barrel burial, but the inconsolable young mother wasn’t for listening, and down the fish eggs went, scoop by vinegary scoop. Until down she went too, sunk for ever by grief and her grumbling guts.

Matilda’s death was unique in that it hadn’t been amberose-related. The rest of the Fearty clan had perished in a multitude of fiery explosions or other gruesome accidents – untimely deaths were an occupational hazard when working with a dangerous substance such as amberose. Not a single Fearty had lived to celebrate their one hundredth birthday, and in Haarville that was considered very unusual indeed.

It’ll be my turn sometime, whispered Manx, as he put the tongs down to wipe his sweaty hands on his apron. But not today. He straightened up and admired the tiny piece of yellow-gold amberose (one-sixteenth pebble-weight to be exact) he’d successfully fished out from the diffuser, and liked to think his parents and ancestors would have been proud too.

Manx breathed deeply, savouring the heady, sweet scent of the shop. Decade upon decade of amberose devices gently humming away had left an indelible smell. It had sunk deep into the dark wooden panels lining the walls and the green woollen curtains hanging at the bay window. Even the oak floorboards, salvaged centuries before from a wrecked ship, now gleamed like honey on hot toast, imbued with years of amberose.

Everything Manx wore smelled richly of the substance too, even his favourite yellow oilskin smock, which he’d found washed up in Limpet Bay last year. With a bit of mending it could now fend off the very coldest wind, the absolute wettest rain, and the thickest, most bone-chilling winter fog – but it was no match for fragrant amberose.

And it wasn’t just clothes. The substance seeped into hair and skin too, meaning that he and Father G permanently emitted a semi-sweet aroma. It was a handy benefit that they fully embraced, as it saved Father G the bother of procuring perfume and meant Manx could skip bath day occasionally. Well, if he smelled so pleasant already, what was the point?

The perpetual carriage clock hanging near the entrance chimed four times. Manx draped white sheets over the shop’s two display cabinets, then flicked the sign in the window to and locked the door. Where was Father G? Four o’clock on Saturdays meant fresh pastries from Bonbeurre’s Bakery, and Manx had already decided he deserved at least two of Madame Bonbeurre’s famous rowanberry jam puffs.

If Father G was running late, it meant he’d almost certainly got carried away at Nine Stitches buying up bundles of gull-feather boas and yet more mother-of-pearl fripperies, egged on, no doubt, by Betsy Lugstitch. The shop owner’s idea of a perfect Saturday afternoon was to charm Father G into purchasing more accessories than he could possibly need for a year of performances as his glamorous drag queen stage character, Gloria in Excelsis. But as long as he’d remembered to stop at the bakery, Manx didn’t mind how many feather boas and necklaces his guardian had bought for his show that night.

The winkle-shell curtain separating the shop from the house jangled in a sudden current of air. Manx darted back behind the counter, through the curtain and into the kitchen in anticipation, but had to swallow down the saliva pooling inside his mouth because Father G was bursting to say something. He’d obviously run all the way back to the shop and was breathing heavily, sweat glistening on his dark brown face and bald head.

What’s going on? Manx was genuinely concerned that his guardian might pass out, and if he did there was a chance he’d topple forward into the delicious jam-oozing puffs, which would make them really quite difficult to eat. Here, he said, pulling out a chair, sit down.

It-it-it’s amazing, stuttered Father G, loosening his purple silk cravat and unbuttoning his shirt collar as he collapsed into the chair. It’s incredible. He looked up at Manx. You’re never going to believe it!

Correct, said Manx. I’ll never believe it if you don’t tell me what I’m supposed to never believe.

I’m sorry, Manx, said Father G, fanning his face with his hand, "it’s just that this hasn’t happened in Haarville since, well, since I happened in Haarville."

Manx’s tummy grumbled. Both boy and stomach were in need of a jam puff. And fast.

Is this one of your guessing games?

No, said Father G. But if you think I’m excited, you should see the rest of town!

Manx sighed, resigning himself to stale pastries. Come on! What’s going on?

Father G took a deep breath. There are strangers in Haarville.

Manx almost toppled over onto the puffs himself.

Outsiders, said Father G. Two of them! They came over the causeway.

The causeway? repeated Manx.

Yes, the causeway.

The causeway that’s so dangerous only a deranged squid searching for a lost tentacle would attempt to cross?

There’s only one causeway, Manx.

Manx felt himself go giddy. He held himself steady against the table.

But… there’s been no outsiders in Haarville since…

Since I arrived, said Father G. Forty years ago.

2.

Olu Pays a Visit

Manx could hardly wait to find out more information about Haarville’s mysterious newcomers. Even Father G was restless, with the result that his alter ego, Gloria in Excelsis, was dressed and ready with a full face of make-up faster than ever that evening.

On any other Saturday, the transformation would take hours, with Father G fussing over which gown to wear for his regular weekend suppertime drag show at Lumpsuckers, Haarville’s ever-popular fish bar and restaurant. Choosing the perfect wig was usually a major operation, with his entire collection called into service before the perfect match for the mood was found.

But there was no such dallying this week. Manx dashed around with armfuls of shell necklaces, boas and high heels, whilst Father G grabbed at random and threw them on. The result was, of course, nothing less than spectacular, which left Manx wondering if his guardian needed to make quite so much fuss every weekend.

Manx was relieved that he hadn’t spent ages tweaking and poking at Father G’s wig, because en route to Lumpsuckers a brisk wind blew along Front Street, almost toppling it from his guardian’s head, and whipping several long blonde strands loose.

As expected, the restaurant was far busier than usual, with people crammed together at the tables. The air was thick with gossip and the aroma of fried haddock. Condensation streamed down the windows and dripped from the ceiling.

Father G wasted no time in taking to the small stage, whilst Manx set up the perpetual gramophone with one of the few records his guardian had managed to bring with him to Haarville. The vinyl was a bit scratched from years of use, but the singer’s beautiful voice still rang out loud and clear. Manx often wondered what the original singers would say if they could see Gloria – all six-feet-whatever of her, not including the towering wig – twirl around the stage, glittering and sparkling, miming the words to their songs.

Father G said his drag queen act had once been hugely popular in the Out-There. It usually went down well in Lumpsuckers too – especially when the music ended and Gloria began telling jokes and picking out customers to join her on stage. But tonight, despite turning out another fabulous performance, not even Gloria in Excelsis could compete with the news of the new arrivals. Hardly anyone was watching the show, and Manx found it almost impossible to force his way through the heaving mass of diners with his tip bucket.

Eventually, he gave up and stood on one of the upturned fish barrels that served as seats, searching the restaurant for Fantoosh. He caught a glimpse of his best friend’s striped, knitted dungarees at the far end of one of the communal benches. Fantoosh’s dungarees, much like Fantoosh herself, were unique. They’d been knitted by her dad from scraps of dyed wool, and as she grew, he added more colourful stripes to the bottom of each leg.

I give up, Manx sighed, squeezing in next to Fantoosh and leaning over to pinch the last fish ball off her plate. His friend gasped and made a show of being outraged, but Manx didn’t need to apologise: Fantoosh always ordered one extra of whatever she was eating, knowing full well that he’d appear to snaffle it. He munched the salty treat for exactly four seconds before swallowing – the optimum time to achieve maximum taste and crunch satisfaction from one of Lumpsuckers’ famous fried snacks.

Having wiped his mouth on his sleeve, Manx emptied that night’s meagre tips onto the table. There’s not even enough in here for a couple of stale limpet buns.

You can’t blame this lot, said Fantoosh, raising her voice over the excited chatter. The outsiders are almost bigger news than when I broke the town record for limpet picking.

Only almost? laughed Manx.

"Maybe they’re slightly bigger news. Fantoosh’s eyes shone copper-bright in the flickering gleam cast by the perpetual lanterns, and her light brown face glowed warmly. Oh, alright, added Fantoosh, smiling. They’re the biggest news since for ever!"

It was true. Nothing this momentous ever happened in Haarville. The only problem was, not one person claimed to have actually seen the new arrivals. There was no word on where they were staying. By closing time there was even a wild rumour that it was all a hoax.

Manx and Father G stumbled round the corner back home to the shop, exhausted from shouting to be heard in the boisterous atmosphere of the fish bar.

I hope I haven’t damaged my delicate vocal cords, whispered Father G, as he unpinned his beehive wig and laid it gently on the shop counter. And they’d better be listening to me next week or Gloria will never again grace the stage.

Don’t worry, said Manx, by then we should know more about these outsiders, Gloria will be as popular as ever, and we’ll have enough tip money to buy limpet buns all week.

On Sundays, Manx liked to rise early and spend some time alone in the shop. With the sound of Father G’s snores echoing down the stairs, he fixed himself a quick breakfast of cold and slightly stale rowanberry jam puffs. They were still tasty, if a bit claggy on the tongue. He then took his cup of gutweed tea through to the shop and began cleaning the mechanism of an ornate perpetual crumpet toaster.

This was an especially important device as it came from Gushet House, home of one of Haarville’s oldest and most reclusive inhabitants, Ma Campbell. She’d been toasting her morning crumpet with it for decades, and since the elderly lady was one of their more important customers, it was vital that Manx took extra care.

Unfortunately, Manx couldn’t concentrate long enough to hold the tongs still. He glanced at the dark stain engrained in the wooden countertop – it served as a grim reminder of the blood spilled when his grandfather had lost control of a perpetual knife sharpener. Not being in the mood for a deadly amberose-related accident this morning, Manx decided to leave the crumpet toaster and work on an easier perpetual, but before he’d even put down his tongs, there was a sharp rap on the door.

Rat-a-tat-tat.

Rat-a-tat-tat-tat.

Olu! Manx cried, leaping off the stool to unlock the door. He held it ajar and the orange tip of an oystercatcher’s long beak poked inside, followed shortly after by the rest of the bird. Olu padded on his webbed feet into the middle of the shop, then stretched his wings and ruffled his black-and-white feathers. Slowly, he turned his small head first left, then right, and then finally looked up at Manx, cocking his head to the side so that one red eye stared out.

Feeling peckish?

Olu tapped the floor with his beak once.

Shame, said Manx. There are some tasty crumbs left over from breakfast.

The bird stared.

Thirsty? asked Manx. There were plenty of puddles outside, but he knew Olu was partial to a drop or two of Da Silva’s finest cockle cordial.

Olu tapped again. Once. And stared.

Finally, Manx understood.

You’ve heard about them, then? The visitors?

Olu tapped twice, still staring. Then the bird let out a squeaky, whistling call. Manx often thought an oystercatcher’s call was like the sound a baby otter made when caught in the beak of a sea eagle, and now, as the whistle echoed off the display cabinets, it made his skin prickle.

Have you seen them?

Two more taps.

And do they seem friendly?

Olu paused for a moment, then tapped.

Just once.

Then the bird wandered off, beginning a circuit of the shop, stopping occasionally to tap the wooden panelling as if checking for death-watch beetles. Olu visited at least once a week, but was normally content to perch in the window, either observing the passers-by outside on Kipper Lane, or watching Manx and Father G at work at the counter. Manx wasn’t certain how long oystercatchers lived, but this one had been paying visits to Fearty’s Perpetuals for as long as Father G had been in Haarville, and possibly far longer than that.

Olu strutted into the middle of shop, head flitting this way and that. Manx had never seen the bird so skittish.

It’s alright, Olu. Everything’s fine here.

Olu gave Manx a final stare, then made for the door, tapping it lightly. Manx unlatched it.

See you soon, he said, as the bird vanished into the swirling mist.

Turning the key in the lock, Manx frowned. Olu was rarely wrong about anything, which meant if his feathers were ruffled by Haarville’s new arrivals, then there had to be something decidedly fishy about them.

Unusually, there were no customers that morning, and after a few hours Manx poked his head out of the door. A thick haar had filled Kipper Lane and was rolling uphill towards Nethergate. The dank, heavy sea fog that gave Haarville its name was just the sort of weather that discouraged even the town's hardy folk from venturing out, and when Father G returned from a quick nip round the corner to Da Silva’s grocers to fetch provisions, his raincoat dripped a damp trail from the door, through the shell curtain and into the kitchen.

I have some news on the outsiders, he declared, spearing a fried ragworm segment with his fork as they sat down to lunch. They’re lodged with our esteemed Burgmaster.

With Lugstitch! Manx almost choked on a chunk of sea carrot. Who told you that?

His wife, replied Father G. "Betsy was at Da Silva’s collecting a mountain of groceries. Apparently the outsiders went directly to Burgh House when they arrived in Haarville, and Lugstitch took them home with him. Betsy’s furious at having to cook for two extra mouths and do all the work at Nine Stitches."

Manx could well imagine Betsy complaining about having to look after the newcomers. Whenever he was at the outfitters being measured for new breeches, she would moan about how her husband left her to run their shop alone whilst he paraded around Haarville as Burgmaster, barking